


Positional Play

by kaixo (ballpoint)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-07
Updated: 2015-01-07
Packaged: 2018-03-06 11:16:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3132461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Xabi Alonso is having the professional time of his life at Bayern, when Steven Gerrard decides to leave Liverpool. Everything else is just filler. Written for Anaile20GH. I hope you like, if not, I can always redo, no worries (it sort of answers your prompt).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Positional Play

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anaile20GH](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anaile20GH/gifts).



As soon as he slipped on the strip of red and blue, and emerged from the tunnel into the Allianz Arena, Xabi looked around, absorbed the noise of the crowds, the mass of fans heaving as they stood up and bayed chants in a language that he did not know. Guardiola’s instructions, easy on his mind, a brief he now knew. Xabi in blue, white and red; onside with his new teammates, knowing about them because he’d played against them in white in the Champions League last season; now with them for this campaign, Lahm, Muller and Boateng. 

The sharp trill of the whistle switched his mind into steely focus, all the nerves falling away, the ball swept off the ground by a sharp kick, the strategy leaping into play. 

Like that, his new life launched into orbit.

“I will not speak to you in Spanish,” Pep Guardiola said the morning after the night of his first game. Xabi invited to stay behind, after everyone had filed out post practice with warm and admiring congratulations. Pep dressed in the adidas shell suit that made up the Bayern training uniform, similar to Xabi’s. His build slender, his hands elegant as he drummed his fingers against his thighs, as he sat on the edge of his desk. “This is Bayern Munich, it’s a German club, yes? And as well, someone with your background- with _our_ backgrounds- we’re proud of our languages, and our respective regions. In the same way, the Germans are proud of their language too.” 

Xabi raised his eyebrows, tilted his head in the way of a student absorbing a lesson for the first time. Pep’s office had the usual detritus of a team manager. White board with the anatomy of a football pitch marked out, on the wall behind him, overlaid with the specific grid of smaller rectangles on either side of the half line and along its sides that Guardiola used as the training field, and various colours (red and blue) of player positions. Notations with asterisks and question signs circled around them, as well as comments in German. 

“Right now,” Pep continued, rolling his shoulders in an elegant shrug, his palms turning upward, as he half sat on the surface of his desk, “I understand that it will be difficult, with you adjusting to the Bundesliga, and your family bedded in. But Xabier-” and Xabi felt the weight of Pep’s stare. “I’d like you to learn German as soon as possible. I will not speak to you in Spanish. Although your English is a plus in that they understand-” and it was, Xabi knew, because the Germans spoke almost textbook perfect English, more so than the English did, because the Germans treated the language like you would a borrowed tome. You took great care, and sought to return it as neatly as it came to you. 

“It is not an excuse,” Pep continued, “I have my team sessions in German, you may ask others to translate, to help, but you are to learn as soon as possible.”

***

The games rushed at Xabi like a wave. Football the language he knew, his touch and passes fluent. The gameplay that Guardiola insisted on, them shifting their places on the field, 3-3-3-1 to 4-3-2-1 back to 3-3-3-1, their shapes moving like a web pinched in one direction, and shifting around. Their positions fluid and complicated, Xabi the pivot point, causing all points to move, his passing perfect because Pep demanded so.

They sought out their opponents, pressing them into their half, starving them of possession, and suffocated, opposing teams unable to break from their own third, all channels locked off to them. 

Less a game, and more a weekly siege, leaving the field with three points, and the rapturous shots of the Bayern supporters in their ears. 

This is why he’d said yes, Xabi admitted, as he sank his muscles into the numbing cold of the ice-bath, looking up at the ceiling into nothingness. He couldn’t understand the language- not yet- but winning, he was well acquainted with.

***

“I couldn’t be a one club man like you!” Xabi joked to Carra, as they greeted each other in a hug before their interview. The camera man trailing behind them, as they walked on, Carra whistled at their surroundings in the Allianz Area. Sleek, and shiny, the atmosphere of wealth and power, of what money could buy and maintain if managed well. Everything different, and Xabi adapted to difference like the chameleon he was, but still, with Carra- it was nice to have a touchstone of what he knew, before _everything_. Carra the same honk of Scouse, the same loud presence he from back then, he just greyer now, as they broke away.

“Itinerant worker looks good on you, Xabs. I watched your matches the other day. You were always top shelf,” Carra’s arm still slung across his shoulders as if they were coming from a piss up instead of going to the offices where they did interviews and press conferences. 

“You don’t miss the glitz and glamour of Madrid, then?”

Xabi tilted his head, held the thought for a while. In Madrid, he and Nagore had embraced that aspect of it. The klieg lights that shone on them because they were in the firmament of Real Madrid. The magazine covers, the invites, the campaigns, the - “No,” Xabi wrinkled his nose, gave an emphatic shake of his head. “I- it’s good here.”

“With Guardiola as coach, plus you’re lining up with half of the World Cup winning team week in, week out. Huh, nice for some. You don’t miss Madrid at all?”

Xabi slid him a look from under lowered lashes. “Starting the interview already, Carra?” 

“Well, you know, I’m a _pundit_ now...” Carra began in a wheedling voice that Xabi knew well, before they both laughed, as they passed by the trophies of Bayern Munich, the silverware that they won, the trophies standing proudly behind spotless glass. 

“I missed Real Madrid in the moment when I heard that they’d be playing Liverpool,” Xabi admitted, the confession smothering his mirth. “I missed Liverpool being there, despite everything...”

“Well, yeah, we’ve made it through the wilderness. Back to European nights. Stevie asked me to ask you... are they still magic?” 

Xabi couldn’t lie, because its spell still held its power even all these years, the choral voices weaving in and out of each other like vines on a lattice work over the speakers. “Yes. You can tell Stevie that they still are.”

***

_2.5 years ago - Madrid, Spain_

“You said no,” Xabi swept into the hotel room, brushing by Stevie, who held the door open like a bemused butler. 

“And a hearty good day to you too.”

“ _Personal terms_ , Steven!” Xabi snapped, turning to face Stevie, who still held the door open. “You got as far as personal terms. That’s- going through the planning, the wedding, and then on the wedding night, you pack your bags and run off!”

A look flitted across Stevie’s face before he turned the door closed, clicking it into place. He’d flown in last night, on the premise of wanting to look over the grounds. The reasoning ridiculous, because Real Madrid’s Valdebebas Park grounds were extensive and impressive. Everyone got the spiel as they walked through, the indoor olympic sized swimming pool, the ten full sized training pitches, the forefront of high tech and luxury of team training centres. Ambition and glory stamped on a grand scale that left you awed, like a pauper in a palace. 

“Xabs,” he began, his accent thick with the rolled vowels that Xabi knew well, as well as the answer before Stevie even gave it. “I- I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

His legs unable to hold him up, Xabi sat at the edge of the hotel bed, his body hitting the mattress and bedclothes with a thump. He closed his eyes for a second, bracing his palms against the edge of the bed. It wouldn’t do to shout, not just yet, as he listened to the silence, the air still save their breathing, and the muted tick of the hotel alarm clock in the background.  
The padding of Stevie’s barefeet against the tiled floor. He didn’t open his eyes until he felt the bed shift beneath him. Opened them now, to see Stevie’s bare legs, pale and thatched with hair, seated close enough to him to feel Stevie’s body heat radiating against his, because he’d already changed into shorts and a polo. 

“Mourinho wants you,” Xabi started, still trying to convince, because friendship demanded it. “He’s always wanted you, remember? Since 2004? I understand why you didn’t do it then, and that was fine.” It was, Xabi would admit selfishly, because of Stevie’s saying yes to Rafa, which lead to Xabi being tapped for an English club, beyond Spanish shores, to him and them. 

Stevie’s faith rewarded by a good team run, a Champions League win a year later. “But Rafa’s left, and Torres - _Stevie_ -”

“I know.”

“And Liverpool is sitting in what, seventh place? You won’t see Champions League next year if you stay; you haven’t seen it for over two years now,” Xabi explained in reasonable tones. “You know that, and you’re not made for that, Stevie. You’re made for winning things, for -” and a hitch in his voice at this as he raised his head, to look Steven in the eye for the first time since he came into the room. “Kissing trophies.”

“I know,” Stevie turned away, at this statement, his eyes seemingly drawn to the glass door to the view overlooking their slice of Madrid and beyond. 

“You’ve said no. After everything, after the -”

Stevie sighed, and Xabi felt it. The tough, chill of his mood that made Stevie as distant as the moon, even though they were right here, less than ten centimetres of space between them. 

“Why?”

“I have me reasons.”

“I can’t go back, I won’t. I loved my time at Anfield, but I’ve moved on.” Xabi’s sharp comment made Stevie look at him, his eyes glassy with emotion, but he nodded briskly enough. 

“I know, I read the papers, got the hint. I’m not asking you to come back. I won’t,” Stevie wrinkled his nose then, his teeth worrying his lower lip. “I won’t ask anymore.”

“What we had - Istanbul - that was - a miracle, Stevie. For the club situation as it was, as it is, we - what’s the saying? When you do more than you could?”

“Exceeded expectations?”

“Yes,” Xabi agreed, “we were good together on the field, I miss that, I miss you. Mourinho, he’s- is a- particular personality, but a great coach, and Real Madrid - there’s nothing better.”

“You think I don’t _know_?” Stevie pushed himself off the bed, all fretful energy as he paced towards the glass door and stopped, his eyes wide and blue. “You think I haven’t seen you, haven’t watched your games, that I haven’t envied you and Ar-” he cut himself off, waving away his sudden outburst. “I have my reasons. I might regret it down the road, and I know you, you’re thinking I’m a daft plonker but-”

Xabi got to his feet, stepped to close the gap between them, throwing his arm around Stevie’s shoulders and gathering his unresisting form against him. It might have been after a match, when win or lose, they’d turn to each other for support, their arms wrapped around each other. No different now, Stevie’s arm around his neck, as they looked out, the day now twilight and the lights flickering on. Madrid a grand lady slipping on her glitters at night, the wash of lights making elegant shadows, and hollows, highlighting buildings and fountains. 

“I’d have loved to have shown you Madrid,” Xabi murmured, resting his temple against Stevie’s, looking outside at the lights below them. “The lively Latina quarter for tapas. I’d take you to _Paraguas_ , they have Asturias cuisine. It’s like eating at a wealthy old aunt’s house for a Sunday lunch. That sort of cuisine that people don’t make anymore, because it takes too long. Demands simplicity, and pure tradition. We’d have _Fabada Asturiana_ , with rich, dark beer. When the team wins - and it’s always when with _los blancos_ , we go to the Cibeles, and celebrate with the Madridistas. It’s a lovely city, Stevie. Arrogant and secretive in the way that the best cities are. Madrid awes you, demands that you please her, and you spend all your time hoping that you do. After a while, you’ll come to love her, and see her demands as an honour.”

“You’ll have to show me one day,” Stevie answered, his voice thick, but his decision resolute. 

“Will you ever tell me _why_?” 

Stevie titled his head slightly back to take in Xabi, since Xabi had about six centimetres on him, as they both knew. Xabi’s heart twisted at Stevie’s smile, half sad, half resigned, his reasons wholly secret. “I’ll tell you one day, if you promise not to take the piss, then.”

Xabi’s chest felt too tight, his eyes on fire with unshed tears. “I won’t,” he promised, wiping at Stevie’s cheek with his thumb. “I just- it’s a club, Stevie,” he tried again, not caring if pressing the point meant he was selfish. “Liverpool, for all that it is, it’s not a kingdom, if you leave it’s you leaving, like another player. Not like a king ---” and his brain went blank. 

“Abdicating?” Stevie asked, his face thrown in shadows, the hotel room’s lights low, because they hadn’t gotten around to turning them on. 

“Yes. That- word.”

“I can’t leave, just as how you couldn’t have stayed.”

Xabi dipped his head, pressing their foreheads together, close enough to see Stevie’s lashes fluttering as he blinked rapidly, his pulse beating in his throat, but he didn’t look away. 

“The Champions League nights,” Stevie asked finally, Xabi feeling the heat of his hand, as Stevie's fingers curled around his wrist. “Are they still magic? Don’t lie.”

“Yes,” Xabi admitted sadly. “They are.”

***

“How’s your training?” Stevie’s face on the screen greeted as Xabi clicked on the camera icon, pushing the overhead light out of the way so he could see Stevie on the screen clearly.

Xabi’s mind flashed back earlier today, remembering the field where the team had trained that morning in front of the crowds. Well, not all the team- Pepe, he’d stayed inside with Martinez, nursing a muscle injury, their faces peering out the window, as Pep stalked the field, gesticulating on the field how he wanted the team to move, how the ball should be handled. His German terse, his gesticulations expressive as he went over the training, the public lining along the galley, with cameras and gentle whispers, the spectators nothing like moving pictures on a wall to him, as they watched the football team going through their paces. 

Satisfied that everyone understood, they were arranged into small teams, doing exercises with the ball. With Pep, it felt as if you were expressing physical geometry; an elegant science that had function, but a craft in its own way, the form pleasing if you broke it down into arrows and curves. Not passing for passing’s sake, but as much as to give the players time to strategize, to open up another chink in the opposing team’s defence, no matter how hard they tried to overlap and close. 

Xabi had gone through it, appreciating Pep’s way, the student in him grokking the theory and empirical evidence of his ideas, now seeing the design of them as Pep built it from the ground up. Triangles, diagonals, curves. The play unpredictable and beautiful, as the passes continued, as they counted aloud _zweiundzwanzig, drieundzwanzig... dreiß-_ , unable to stop his mouth from curving when Pep gave a nod of approval, before snapping his fingers. 

The exercise finished, gifting his ankles with a faint throb. Even now, later, in the evening, with the children in bed, and Nagore off in the study looking at her accounts for her business, the glow of light a line under the door, he still felt it. 

“It’s good,” Xabi admitted, “It’s easy to see how Guardiola has earned his reputation. He leaves nothing to chance, and everything is done for a result. People dismiss his football as tiki taka but it’s more than that. It’s-” he chewed at his cuticle thoughtfully. 

“It’s?”

“Genius,” Xabi could admit it freely, now that he wasn't at Real Madrid anymore. “He’s always thinking to make things better, no reinvention for the sake of it. With that Roma match-”

“ _The Siege of Rome_ the papers called it over here. Then going to meet the Pope for him to ransom peace? Oooeer. How does the Pope find that celibacy thing...?”

“I didn’t ask,” the corner of Xabi’s mouth swung upward. “I wanted to, but it’s never appropriate, he’s _Papa_ , after all”

“He is,” and the screen shifted and shivered, before Stevie came back into view, with a bottle of juice in hand, his arms on the - kitchen island- Xabi hazarded a guess, because he wasn’t seated. Xabi saw the faint smile that stretched Stevie’s mouth, before he frowned, and he looking like a harried headteacher of a boy’s school than what he was. 

“How’s Anfield?” 

“It is-” and a laugh at this, “Anfield,” said with such a gusty sigh of pained affection, it made Xabi grin. “I look at the lads,” Stevie continued, his arms across his chest. “Moreno, Manquillo- they could barely speak the language when they came at first, and now-- they’re tumbling over their teammates like puppies and giving it a go like everyone else. It’s -” and the laugh tumbled out of him, the rare bit of amusement that Xabi had seen less of as he’d gotten older. “I look at Alberto, and Javier -” and Stevie got the pronunciation of _Javier_ right, Xabi noticed with amusement. It only took him ten years. “And I ask myself _were we ever that young?_ ”

“You were team captain at twenty three.”

The double take that Stevie did at that, a furrow of the brow and a start, as if electrocuted, made Xabi laugh. “Where does it all go?” Stevie murmured, looking off in space, as if counting off the years. “I just-”

“That’s why we have children, I think, so we can mark time.”

“That’s a thought, you have young Alba over there with you in Bayern, yeah?”

“Coming back from injury, but yes, he’s young. You still have the Spanish connection in Liverpool, Stevie-” the note in Xabi's voice now teasing, always fond. “You should be speaking Spanish by now.”

“Erm- well. You already knew English, so I didn’t have to, and your German?”

“It comes,” Xabi said, adjusting the weight of his laptop on his stomach, as he shifted in his sofa for greater comfort. “It’s new, until it gets old, and you move through.” 

“The news going around is Nando might be returning to Atlético Madrid, I’m happy for him. Have you ever thought - of going back to Real Sociedad? Seeing where it began, so to speak?”

“Sometimes, you can’t go back home again, Stevie.”

“But would you?”

“No.”

They fell quiet, Stevie playing with the loose packaging on his bottle, and after a brief moment, he half laughed, rubbing at the nape of his neck. He looked as tired as Xabi felt, that tiredness which pressed your body down into the nearest horizontal surface you found. 

“You always looked forward, I hated that about you at times.”

“And now?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m sorry-” Xabi breathed, “about Liverpool and the Champions Lea-”

“I got to experience that one more time, and that will have to be enough. Xabi?” 

They might have been in that hotel room in Madrid all those years ago, when Stevie told him what Xabi had already known, although he hoped against hope. Stevie had always understood vocation, had an unerring faith to a cause that seemed helpless, even calling on the saints for intercession, but more St Robbie than St Jude. 

If Stevie and Pope Francis had been in the same room, they would have much in common to speak about- what was the metaphysical measure of faith, in the face of stark reality. Did you measure it by the amount of heartbreak you set store? Was mental self flagellation as bad as the physical? Was glimpse of grace worth the pain - the three matches of Champions League after half a decade away- or prayers from the Holy See, appealing to a deity that might not even exist. 

What was the price of faith, he should have asked _Papa_ Francis, because I fear my friend is paying for it. Xabi should have asked, and gotten an answer.

“Yes, Stevie?” Xabi answered, wondering where this rush of emotion came from, and what it meant. 

“You were right. The Champions League's nights,” Stevie said, his eyes dark blue on the screen. “They are still magic.”

***

“Xabi.”

“Carra,” Xabi greeted, as he made his way to his car, phone at his ear, his mood buoyant, because his interview in German had gone well, the feedback positive, the club pleased. There was talk of following up with another one, and yes, he could do that. His third act as a club guy, and nothing more. A- hybrid, if he had to admit to himself, with the seasoned experience of La Liga, but the polite and studious distance he had in the Premier League. 

Today a beautiful day, one of those winter days Europe did so well if she felt generous, with bright skies, and the air as brisk as a slap. After the rain of San Sebastian that wore away good moods although still beautiful, this felt like bliss, his bones set to solid from the chill. 

“You can’t stay away from me, eh?” Xabi sighed, still buoyed by his good mood, as melodramatic as a school boy. “I’ve told you, we can’t, it’s not you it’s-”

“It’s Stevie,” Carra’s voice cut through the ease of their banter, terse as an old school telegram. “He’s leaving Liverpool.”

The world fell away then, the brisk breeze now a menacing chill. Xabi stood in the middle of the car park, phone at his ear. “I-I he didn’t- the last time we- it’s-”

“Listen, I need to let you go, I’m elbow deep in an article on Stevie that has to go to press today, but I thought you’d want to know, eh?”

Xabi fought off a wave of vertigo, his breathing hitched. “Carra- is he- how is he?”

“He’s Stevie. Doing an interview for LFC TV, and then just bedding in. He still has fixtures- FA cup and PL, and I really have to go, Xabs. We’ll speak soon, okay?”

Before Xabi could get a word in, Carra clicked off.

***

“I heard, Jamie called me just now,” Nagore said as soon as he turned the key in their door, she standing in the passage, Emma gurgling sleepily in her arms. “I tried to call Alex, but the lines are engaged.”

Of course she would have, Xabi knew, because that was her way. To reach out, to gauge the situation, and following up with appropriate action. Flowers if needed, a note of condolence if warranted.

“I’ll try later,” Xabi reached for Emma, and they did that _pas de deux_ of parents transferring Emma from one set of arms to the other, with accompanying towel. Testing, nodding to make sure the transfer secure, Emma warm and solid against his chest, babbling sleepy nonsense that babies did, and Nagore stepped away. “I’ll put her down.”

“Xabi,” her hand now on his arm, her fingers long and elegant, bare save her wedding bands as she held him in place. He lifted his gaze from her hands, looked into her face, her eyes soft and stricken with sympathy. “I’m sorry.”

***

“You heard?”

“Pepe,” Xabi answered this call; he had let the other texts and calls go. He in front of his computer, sitting beside Emma’s crib, she curled up in slumber. “Yes, I heard.”

“The end of an era. He still believed, you know. Even though the glory days were gone, probably ran off by time we arrived, in truth. But you know Stevie. He’ll think of everything as his fault. I never thought that he’d leave Anfield especially after he said no to- you know.”

Oh, he knew. 

“Have you spoken with him? How is he?”

“You know Stevie,” Xabi moved from Emma’s room, tucking his laptop under his arm, as he closed the door with a gentle click, as he sat down in the nearby study. “He goes to ground when wounded. I’ve tried to get in touch but -”

“He’ll reach out when he’s strong enough.”

“Yes,” Xabi’s voice shook, because shock had given way to deep emotion, to feelings that foamed and teamed inside of him, unable to make words. They robbed him of eloquence, of spinning conversation from nothing. Made him sit down in the semi darkness, the dim light of the screen illuminating the room. 

“ _Vale, vale_ ” Pep crooned, the distant clash of metal meaning that the table was being set for dinner at his end. “I wanted to make sure that you knew.”

“Thank you.”

“I’ll see you Wednesday at training,” Pepe said, quick to pick up on a mood. “Ciao.” 

Xabi turned down his phone after that. Not off, just in case he got a call but - Xabi remembered his own crushing disappointment after Spain had gone out of the World Cup. A loss was a loss, no matter how much wins you had under your belt, and if that seared through him, someone who had more wins than losses, and Stevie’s almost miss last season, plus everything---

Desperate, he called again, the two rings in quick succession, before it went to answer phone. _-can’t answer your call right now, leave a message after the to-_

Not today.

_Anfield 2006_

They lost. The score didn’t matter, it didn’t. 

What mattered were the Benfica players hugging and screaming in triumph, their hoops and screams of joy a sandpaper on the soul of his despair. Xabi stood, hands on his hips, feeling the twinge in his ankles, the bone deep sorrow of loss. 

No big ears this year. 

_Joder_ he thought, before he spat out his gum in disgust. The oversized banners, so big, you could probably see them from space, the five trophies silhouetted against them, shimmering in the flood lights. They lost and just - his thoughts stilled by Steve’s arm around his shoulders. He’d know the weight of him, Xabi thought. Two years into their stint, and Xabi knew him, felt the heat and exertions pumping off his body, his adrenalin high coming down. Tasted the frustration that would have been on Stevie’s tongue too, and about to turn to Stevie to say something when the crowd started to clap and whistle. 

They deserved it, the whistles, and jeers- Xabi thought, only for the crowd to break into song. _You’ll Never Walk Alone_ less triumph and more hymn, a balm that soothed at the ragged edges of his mood. 

Xabi couldn’t move, couldn’t leave. Didn’t they- didn’t the supporters realised that they _lost_? That at this time, they couldn’t offer anything, especially after the highs of the year before? 

He made to turn to Stevie, to ask, “Is this for us?” Only for Stevie to stand there, ever so still, facing their supporters, ready to take it all, be it praise or censure. Xabi had no choice but to follow his Captain's lead, to take it it all in, the emotion reaching through his chest and squeezing his heart. Wrapping his arm around Stevie’s waist, he looked out at the faces, at the crowds, their forms blurring through his tears.

***

_2008_

“Nando always talks about Atlético,” Xabi said over his beer. One of those away matches to Tottenham Spurs, and they came away with a draw, and spent Saturday night budged up tight in an old fashioned pub, with dim lighting and dodgy beer. 

“It’s his boyhood club,” Stevie sipped at his beer. “He’s allowed, you know, Xabs. He didn’t want to leave them, but he had to. Not everyone can square their past and have one eye on the door like you do.”

“Football is a business,” Xabi said, the bitterness in his tone seeping through, “he left for his career at the end of the day.”

“Might be, but he’s still a Colon-”

“ _Colchoneros_ ,” Xabi corrected him, Stevie’s Scouse accent obliterated the word when he repeated it. “Mattresses. Have you ever thought of leaving Liverpool?”

“The last time I thought about it, you came along, remember?" Stevie beamed, "I haven’t thought about it since.”

“Stevie-”

“I know, you and Rafa an’ -” Stevie’s stare now fixed on him. “I don’t know if I could ever leave Liverpool, or would want to.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s _mine_ , I fell in love with Anfield before I knew what the word meant. I wanted to wear the Captain’s band by thirty, to bring back European nights, and - we’ve been through much, Liverpool. Lost even more. Sometimes, football might have been the only thing that saved us, that loved us when no one or nothing else did.”

“I can’t stay,” Xabi said at last, unable to hide his plans anymore. “I’ve told my agent to start listening to other offers. I’m putting in for a transfer, Stevie...”

Xabi's voice trailed off. His decision the best one for him, the one that made sense, but Stevie - he mightn't understand. Stevie frowned for a bit, his mouth in that twist it always did, and Xabi could _feel_ Stevie's mind working, the jumble of emotions before he waded through, and came to an answer. 

“If you have to go, mate, go. I’d be devastated if you left, and everyone will know, but you’ll always have a place here. You’ll always-” and Stevie squeezed his wrist then, a pulse of fingers, and Xabi met his gaze. “Have a friend here. You’ll have me. If you ever come back for matches and the like.”

“And it’s so easy for you?” Xabi asked with surprise, because he was breaking up their pairing, leaving him behind, and Stevie didn't take too well to being left behind 

“When it’s you," Stevie said at last. "It is. You’re my mate, Xabs, I’m going to miss you, I am. As Captain, I’ll be grumpy about it, I- I’ll whinge, I will, I’m warning you! But I’m your mate, I’ll be cheering the loudest, because you’re my mate, too. Never forget that.”

“It shouldn’t-” and it really shouldn’t, not with the ease that Stevie said it. The act of absolution, of the knowledge that Stevie didn’t take his leaving as a rejection of him or their friendship. “I wish,” Xabi said at last, not knowing how fervent it was until he said it. “I wish you’d come with me.”

“I can’t,” Stevie shook his head, his eyes bright with mischief, as he raised his drink as a form of salute. “I don’t want to be like Torres, unable to play for a team I really love.”

“You’re... a romantic, Stevie. Like _Quixote_ ”

“Erm... yeah. Last of the romantics, that’s me.”

***

Nothing more to say of it, and yet everything, Xabi thought as he came back into the moment, loading the picture on to his twitter account, choosing the best image that told the story of them.

Number 8 and number 14, red with gold, scuffed and battered after their last Champions League game of that season. Better yet, that told the story of _him_. Steven Gerrard, not afraid to wade in, and fighting for his, to give Liverpool all that he had. For staying longer than was wise, for ignoring the siren songs from better teams. His love irrational, and foolish, noble and blessed, blazing like the Liverbird on his chest. At the end, the words came easily to Xabi after all. 

_My hero. My Mate._

Later on in the week, but still very close, because this was a week of shocks, Xabi caught up with Fernando Torres’ presentation at the Vicente Calderón on youtube. Noticed how Nando trembled a little, as if not knowing or believing the love at the Calderón was for him. How funny and terrible life could be, Stevie leaving his boyhood club to end his years somewhere else, Fernando coming back to the Calderón a man, to end his career at his boyhood club. The light in Fernando’s eyes when he spoke, the emotion making his voice rough, but his statement no less true, because it happened to Xabi too.

“I belong to Atlético. In the end you belong to one club, and one club only. You can love a few, you can be grateful to some, but the one you choose to belong to is only _one_.”

 

FIN

**Author's Note:**

> Steven Gerrard announced his leave from LFC around Jan 02, then Fernando Torres goes back to his old club in the same week. WTF. Sorry for changing the title, the first one just got on my tits after a while.  
> The tweet that broke everyone https://twitter.com/xabialonso/status/551001942626160643  
> Fernando Torres video - he's gone back to the team that he loved. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xZoIAzsDI9Q


End file.
